


Don't Feel Nothin' Back

by withthekeyisking



Series: Com. Fics [5]
Category: Nightwing (Comics), Teen Titans (Animated Series)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dick Grayson is Renegade, Evil Slade Wilson, Gags, Humiliation, M/M, Punishment, Rope Bondage, Spanking, Spit As Lube, Verbal Humiliation, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:07:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26336167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/pseuds/withthekeyisking
Summary: Renegade screws up on a mission, and his master punishes him.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson
Series: Com. Fics [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1872547
Comments: 31
Kudos: 187





	Don't Feel Nothin' Back

**Author's Note:**

  * For [your_sweet_boy_mike](https://archiveofourown.org/users/your_sweet_boy_mike/gifts).



> Showing the true duality of man, here is the second fic you wanted my dude! Hope you like this one as much as the first :)

Dick stands in front of Slade, hand clenched tightly around his opposite wrist behind his back.

Slade stares back at him dispassionately, expression devoid of emotion, fingers drumming on the arm of his chair. The sound echoes through the large room, and Dick uses it as a focal point, breathing deeply to avoid the anxiety that rises in him in response to Slade's anger.

It's a trained response by this point. After living with and working for Slade for eight months, the man's well past weaseled his way into Dick's head. But him being aware of it doesn't change the fact that the response exists, and it makes it very challenging to face Slade this upset and not throw himself to the ground to beg forgiveness.

Slade would only punish him further, if he acted that weak. Slade likes him to be sorry, likes him to be _afraid,_ but no apprentice of Deathstroke's is allowed to be as weak as to beg uselessly to avoid a punishment that he deserves.

"Do you know how much money you cost me today?" Slade asks coolly.

Dick manages to keep himself from cringing. "Almost a quarter of a million."

They've already gone over the mission, over Dick's mistake, over the error that cost his master a lucrative contract. He's already had to see the disappointment in Slade's eye as he told the older man exactly how he failed him. Now he stands and waits, allowing his master to judge him as he sees fits.

"You behaved like an errant child," Slade tells him, eye narrowing, and Dick drops his gaze. "You were a disgrace to my name today, Renegade. A disgrace to the colors I so generously gifted you with."

Dick tenses his shoulders instead of hunching them like he wants to. "I'm sorry, Master," he says. He wants to say it again and again, but holds back. He knows he fucked up; he'll take his punishment like a man.

"So you say," Slade says, heavy and disappointed, and Dick doesn't restrain his cringe this time.

"Master, truly, I—"

"Silence."

Dick's words dry up in his throat and he does as he's told. He can feel his pulse in his ears. His lungs feel a little too tight. He hasn't messed up this badly in a while.

"If you're going to behave like a child, then I suppose I should punish you like one," Slade muses.

Dick chances a glance up, brow furrowing in confusion. "Master?"

"Strip," Slade commands.

Dick blinks once, confused, but follows the order, mechanically removing each piece of his uniform and folding them on the ground, carefully laying his weapons out along with them. When he's completely nude he looks back to Slade expectantly, and finds his master scanning him, lips pursed.

Slade crooks his fingers, indicating Dick should step closer, and Dick does so readily, not stopping until he's directly in front of the man.

"Now bend over my lap," Slade orders.

Dick lets out a startled laugh. "I—what?"

Slade's blue eye sharpens, and the laugh stutters to a halt in Dick's lungs. "You know I don't like to repeat myself."

No, no he doesn't. Dick has quite a few scars earned by his own hesitation in following orders. He knows better by now.

So Dick does as he's told, lowering himself to fold across his master's lap. The position is awkward and embarrassing, and Dick can feel his cheeks warming.

He jumps when a hand settles on his bare ass, the rough material of Slade's glove dragging across his skin and making him shiver.

"I think...forty strikes should suffice for now for your behavior. Would you agree, Apprentice?"

Oh God, Slade is actually going to spank him like he's a toddler. The humiliation of it _alone_ feels like punishment enough. He'd actually rather have his master take a whip to his back instead of this; at least with that he could maintain some level of dignity. But like this? No, no dignity to be found.

"Whatever you think is best, Master," Dick responds dutifully, and hears a noise from Slade that almost sounds like a chuckle.

"Good. Now I want you to count the strikes and _thank_ me for each one. If you miss one, we start again."

Dick's face gets hotter. Okay, Slade _absolutely_ knows what he's doing; the humiliation is a big part of the punishment, it seems. "Yes, Master."

Slade begins, lifting his hand and then _slamming_ it back down on Dick's ass. Dick yelps, jerking forward, eyes going wide. Slade is not holding back, the blow sharp and painful and inhuman in strength, and Dick mourns how hard it is going to be to sit in the coming days by the time they hit forty.

"One," Dick says, a tad breathless. "Thank you, Master."

Slade rubs his hand firmly over the spot he just hit, which _stings_ even after only one strike, and then lifts his hand and brings it back down, just as brutal as the first slap. Dick manages to hold back a noise this time, but not the way he jerks across Slade's lap.

"Two. Thank you, Master."

Slade switches up the pace of his blows from there. Sometimes he will deliver three quick strikes and force Dick to scramble to keep up with the count. Sometimes he'll strike and then not move for a little while, amping up Dick's anxiety over whenever the next slap is going to arrive.

And with each one Dick does as he's told, keeping the count and thanking his master for punishing him. He already failed his master once today—he can take a punishment.

It's around Number Twenty that things start to...change.

Not on Slade's part, the man is no different than he was at the beginning. But on Dick's part...well. Warmth begins pooling in his gut, pleasure sparking up his spine with each blow. It's utterly terrifying when he realizes he's forming an erection.

He doesn't know what it is about it, exactly. Maybe it's how utterly helpless he is, forced to just _take_ whatever his master has to give. Maybe it's how firmly Slade holds him in place with a hand on the back of his neck, despite how Dick jerks and jolts with each blow. Maybe it's the—

Oh hell, justifying it isn't going to change the situation Dick's found himself in, which is getting hard from his master dolling out a punishment. It doesn't change the fact that Dick is working _very hard_ to not press back into the strikes now, trying _very hard_ to keep a moan out of his voice when he thanks his master for giving it to him.

He fails, on Number Thirty-Four.

He's _so close_ to the end, so close to freedom, but—

But then Slade brings his hand down forcefully again and again in the same spot, _four times_ in the exact same spot, and it hurts so good, and then Slade is dragging his gloved hand over the sensitive area, pressing down, and Dick—

Dick _moans._

Slade goes still, and Dick freezes with him, eyes wide. What does he say here? How does he _possibly_ excuse this behavior? What could he possibly say to make this better?

Slade's hand drifts slowly downward, and Dick clamps his legs together in panic, not wanting to let Slade _know._ The moan was bad enough, but maybe he can avoid Slade knowing he's hard, maybe he can make this just the _slightest_ bit easier on himself.

But his master clicks his tongue. "You know better than to deny me, boy."

Dick's heart stutters, his panic getting worse, and he reluctantly parts his legs again. Slade's hand starts to drift once more, reaching underneath Dick and then wrapping around Dick's mostly hard cock, grip turning tight enough to be painful.

"Richard," Slade sighs, and Dick cringes; Slade only ever uses his first name when he's disappointed or disgusted in something Dick's done. He can't believe this is happening.

Slade's hand tightens further, and Dick cries out, tears springing to his eyes as the pain amps up.

"Master, please—"

"You've been _enjoying_ this," Slade accuses. "You lost me one-hundred-and-twenty-thousand dollars today, Apprentice, and then take _pleasure_ from my attempt to _punish_ you? Have you no remorse? Is the lesson really not _sticking?"_

"No, Master, I'm _sorry,_ I am, I didn't mean—"

"Get up," Slade orders.

Dick freezes and then does as he's told, awkwardly pushing himself into a standing position in front of Slade. His master's eye drags up and down his body, lips curled in disgust as he watches Dick's erection bob upward. Dick's face is hot with humiliation.

Slade gets to his feet and slowly circles around Dick, and though it's a cliché, Dick has never felt more like prey then he does right now, a true predator walking around him deciding where to go for the kill.

After two full, slow circles around Dick, Slade settles behind him, out of line of sight. His Deathstroke uniform brushes against Dick's bare skin as Slade presses close, and it makes Dick shiver. One of Slade's hands settles on Dick's ass, squeezing roughly.

Dick shouts and jerks forward a step, instinctively trying to move away from the pain, but Slade doesn't let him get far. The man throws an arm across Dick's chest, elbow pressing into his sternum and hand wrapping around his throat, easily pinning him into place against Slade's chest.

Slade's hand still on his ass squeezes again, cruelly digging his fingers in, and Dick groans, trying to twist away.

"Master, _please—"_

"But I thought you liked this," Slade says in his ear, words dripping with mockery. "I mean, what else am I supposed to think with you moaning like a _whore_ when I put my hand on your ass?"

If possible, Dick's face gets even hotter. "It isn't—I—Master, please—"

Dick's words cut off as he roughly released. He stumbles forward a step, arms lifting to catch his balance, but it's only a moment before Slade's boot is coming down against the back of his knee.

Dick cries out in pain and his leg buckles, sending him crashing down. Slade didn't hit him hard enough to dislocate his knee—wouldn't do to take his apprentice out of the game—but it is enough to make his leg feel nerveless and definitely useless for the moment.

Slade follows him down, his heavy body draping over Dick's back, and Dick catches himself on his hands, grunting under the pressure of keeping himself at least semi-upright.

"Slade—"

His master wraps a hand around his jaw, forcing it shut and silencing him. Dick's pulse is fast as a hummingbird's wings when Slade's lips brush the shell of his ear and says, "Enough pointless chatter from you, Renegade. If this is what you want, I will gladly give it to you."

Dick doesn't understand what that means, and his brow furrows in confusion.

At least it does until Slade forces him down further, head on the cold cement but ass still raised, the other man's groin lining up perfectly in place.

Dick falls deathly still for two moments, and then he lashes out, shouting, trying to get Slade off of him. But he has no leverage in his current position, especially not against Deathstroke the Terminator, and Slade keeps him trapped easily.

"Master, _stop—"_ Dick says as one of Slade's hands rubs his ass again, far closer to his hole this time.

Slade clicks his tongue. "Just like a whore, Richard, to beg someone to touch you and then beg for them to stop when you finally get what you want."

No, Dick doesn't want this, he doesn't want this _at all—_

"No, please, Master, I don't—"

Slade's hand closes over his jaw again, despite the way Dick tosses his head, but is quickly replaced by a strip of fabric that Slade ties tightly around his head, pulling his lips wide and preventing Dick from talking. Dick moans in distress. He tries to buck up, force Slade off of him, but the man doesn't budge.

"Settle, boy," Slade says, chuckling. "Don't worry, I'll give it to you the way you want it—nice and hard."

Dick tries to strike back at him, panic taking over. Slade's never done anything like this before, has never touched him inappropriately, this _has_ to be some form of fucked up intimidation technique, it _has_ to be. No way is Slade actually going to—going to—

Slade catches his wrist, and Dick shouts as Slade squeezes, the bones of Dick's wrist grinding together. Slade twists his arm up into the small of his back, pulling hard enough to make his shoulder ache, and then does the same with Dick's other arm, despite the way Dick tries to prevent it.

And then there's a course rope binding his wrists together, and Dick _can't move, can't escape._ He hasn't been this helpless in a long time, _never_ wanted to be this helpless ever again, but here Slade is, handling him as easily as a puppy.

There's a rustling noise as Slade shifts, and then Dick hears Slade spit. He's experienced enough to understand what that means, and he wiggles underneath Slade, trying to pull away, moaning out a complaint and a plea rolled into one.

Slade misinterprets his actions in a way that feels entirely purposefully. _"Eager,_ are you? Don't worry, Little Bird, I'll take care of you."

Dick highly doubts it. He doubts Slade even understands what _care_ is.

A large, bare finger pokes at Dick's ass, just barely slick with spit, and Dick jolts forward, but Slade effortlessly holds him in place, pushing his finger inside of Dick.

It burns, too large and too dry and too fast, but Slade doesn't seem to care about the pained noise Dick makes, pumping his finger in and out roughly.

"Look at how well you take me," Slade murmurs. "How you just suck me right in. You're _begging_ for my cock, aren't you, boy?"

Dick keens, a protesting noise, but it does nothing to dissuade Slade, who simply pushes in another finger, and a third only a few seconds after that.

It _hurts._ It's been quite a while since Dick was with a man—it's not like Slade gives him a lot of free time to go _meet people_ —and even a while since he had sex at all, the girl for a mission three months ago being the last time. Slade is going too hard and too fast, and Dick doubts the man is going to stop with that.

As if the universe just wants to punish him for that thought, Slade pulls his fingers out of Dick's ass and shifts again, _spits_ again, and then something far larger is pressing at Dick's entrance—

Dick screams as Slade presses himself inside. Everything is fire and ripping and thrashing and he wants to beg him to stop, wants to beg for leniency, but his tongue is useless and poisonous, his body weak and immobile. He's helpless as Slade sheathes himself inside him, a grunt escaping the man once he's all the way in.

Dick has two moments to breathe against the pain before Slade's drawing back achingly slow and then _snapping_ his hips forward.

The pace, from there, is brutal. Slade fucks like he fights, domineering and strong and fast, deadly quiet save a few moments if you really strain your ears, powerful and unavoidable no matter how hard you try.

Dick can do nothing but writhe and cry as his master uses him, fucking him into the floor, one hand on his ass and digging into the growing welts he left only a few minutes before. All the pain blends together, and Dick goes boneless, squeezing his eyes shut and waiting for it to be over.

"That's right," Slade grunts. "That's right, take it. _Take it."_

Dick does.

When Slade eventually comes, he does it buried as deeply in Dick's ass as he can get, one hand on his hip in a bruising grip, and his jaw clamped on Dick's shoulder, biting deep enough to draw blood.

When Slade pulls out and off of him, Dick collapses onto his side, panting heavily. His face is wet with tears, his chest heaving. Slade stands above him and tucks himself back into his pants, watching him with a lazy, satisfied eye.

"Next time," Slade says, "the consequences for losing me that much money will be far worse." And then he turns and walks away, footsteps echoing until he's gone completely.

Dick, broken and bloody and bruised on the floor, can't imagine _worse_ is actually possible.

Especially considering the traitorous pool of cum on his stomach.


End file.
